


A Time Long Gone

by Gracefully



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 14:46:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13719930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gracefully/pseuds/Gracefully
Summary: I wrote this back in June of 2015 and never finished it.Love me some Doc Roe.Here ya go!





	A Time Long Gone

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in June of 2015 and never finished it.   
> Love me some Doc Roe.   
> Here ya go!

Three months into the new job (the new role, the new way of life), a man trips on a rock and slices open his shin, and suddenly Eugene is back at war. He drops what he's doing instantly, running to kneel by the cursing man. Blood is everywhere, pouring through the ripped material of his pants, and all Eugene can see is the white snow of Bastogne. 

He knows it's not real, he can see the dirt, he can feel the pebbles when he kneels down. Hell, he can feel the sun hot on his back and shoulders, the farthest sensation away from the icy hellhole known as Bastogne. 

"Sit still, calm down." He instructs the man tersely as he rips a strip of his shirt off, rolling up the cuff of the man's jeans. It's not too bad, luckily, but it looks painful (a mere scratch compared to a shrapnel wound). The man's initial shouts have drawn attention, and other workers have gathered around them in the time it takes Eugene to bandage the wound. Their manager storms up, huffing and puffing like a train. 

"What the hell happened?" He asks, frustrated. 

"He slipped, cut his leg open." Eugene answers simply. He finishes tying the strip of fabric, shifting his weight back onto his heels. "How's that feel?" He asks the man. 

He looks at Eugene with wide eyes. "Hurts like a bitch, but it feels better than it did." He pauses, assessing the wrapped wound for himself. "Thank you," he adds, almost as an afterthought. 

The group disperses at the manager's terse order, and Eugene ducks his head and follows orders, like he's good at. He realizes his hands are shaking when he goes to pick up his hammer, and there's blood smeared on his wrist, and suddenly Eugene has trouble breathing. 

At lunch, one man, a veteran like Eugene himself, comments on Eugene's actions, saying it was unlike anything he ever saw while in the service. Not one medic had that touch, that calming presence. 

Eugene doesn't want to admit how much the event has shaken him, but as soon as he gets home, he has to sit down for a minute or two with his head bowed, breathing deeply and concentrating on the present. 

He picked the job as something to do with his hands, something to take his mind off of things long enough to forget some of the more horrific scenes of war. Eugene knew he would simply waste away behind a desk if he got an office job. He needed sweat dripping down his back, he needed burning muscles and long days so that he could collapse and go to sleep the moment he got back to his small apartment. 

After Eugene patched up that man, it got harder to forget. Memories flooded back, the good mixed evenly with the bad. In the golden heat of August, Winters’ small, satisfied smile after 2nd platoon finished first in a training exercise. Screams for a medic echoing off the snow. Babe’s warm laugh after one of Eugene’s rare jokes. Blood dripping off the fingers of a dead man. The warmth of the camaraderie that the men shared. 

At times, it was too much for Eugene to handle. 

But sometimes, when the moon was bright and the air was warm, and memories of Easy Company were fresh in his mind even as his hair grayed, he could remember and he could smile until his face hurt and happy tears streamed down his face. 


End file.
